


but we are not young and this isn’t a party

by wyverary



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Stanley Uris, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, Hospitalization, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Stanley Uris Lives, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Survivor Guilt, Trans Female Ben Hanscom, but in the sense that theres still something there, eddie still dies sorry queens, implied Bisexual Patty Blum, slightly vague ending i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-09 14:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19889551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyverary/pseuds/wyverary
Summary: Patty Uris calls 911 in time. Things play out from there.(aka Stan survives the bath)





	but we are not young and this isn’t a party

**Author's Note:**

> title - buses splash with rain by frankie cosmos
> 
> decided 2 finish this up in honor of the new trailer, not sure im Super Jazzed abt how it turned out but join me anyway in my journey 2 project my entire life experience onto stanley uris lol
> 
> warning, this fic deals pretty heavily with suicide, nobody ends up dying from it but scenarios of it are described in what could be considered detail so be wary of that
> 
> disclaimer: my hospital experience is with the adolescent inpatient ward so if any of this is inaccurate 2 adult inpatient thats why, that said i dont wanna actually air the details of my hospital experience so if u have questions abt it (4 some reason??) then send me a private message on tumblr or something, a lot of this fic is honestly me trying 2 reconcile with my own experiences i guess 
> 
> could be in the same universe as we get a few years or who we are in the dark but its not rly a sequel or anything & u dont need 2 read either of those 2 Get It

Patty didn’t scream when she saw the blood. She never really made a habit of screaming, when she was scared or otherwise. Maybe when she was a child it had come naturally, but at some point you had to learn to contain yourself. Nobody had ever come when she called anyways and that stuck with her years after it mattered. 

Picture this: she’s sitting in the living room, watching TV and going about her business, when she gets the odd feeling she needs to check on her husband. Even now she couldn’t explain what gave her the thought. She’d noted how strange he’d been that day, noticed all the little things that were off with him, but checking on him isn’t the result of logical mental process. It isn’t even much of a thought, more like a sudden weight in her stomach. So she walks up the stairs, opens the bathroom door, and sees Stanley sitting in a pool of red. Her memories blur from there.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t even totally seem to register what all of it meant, the blood, the razor, the writing on the tile. She simply let her body take over and rushed into action. She called 9-1-1 first, slowly detailing what she’d walked in on in the steadiest voice she could manage. It didn’t take long for the responders to trace the call, and by then Patty had drained the bath and tried to bandage his wrists with whatever they had in the first aid kit.

She didn’t tell anyone, not during or after the event itself, but the worst part was Stanley. It wasn’t the blood that got to her, or even the severity of the entire situation. What really fucked with her head was how Stanley was clearly alive and awake through it all. She had rushed in to where he lay in the tub and looked him in the face, and all that was there looking at her through heavy-lidded eyes was something cold and unknowable. She knew he’d struggled with mental illness; they both had, really, and it was another understanding they had between each other. This wasn’t that. It wasn’t something she knew at all. 

She was sitting by his side in the ambulance when she really registered what was happening. Stan was strapped to a yellow metal frame, and Patty was draped in a gray blanket, and he had tried to kill himself. That was when she broke down.

* * *

“Hello? Is this Mike Hanlon?”

“That would be me.”

“Well, Mr. Hanlon, You’d better have a _good fucking explanation_ for why my husband just slit his wrists in our bathtub.”

* * *

When it came to the laws of the state of Georgia, Stan tended to take the path of least resistance. Their laws on hospitalization were no different for him. As soon as he woke up in the white Purell-scented room he’d just laid back and agreed to whatever the doctors said. 

The first thing he noticed upon waking up was just how shitty he felt. Attempting suicide to avoid visiting your childhood home will sap your energy, he guesses. The second thing he noticed was Patty, turning to him and yelling her head off. Maybe on another day he’d be confrontational, give as good as he got, but the third thing he noticed was how puffy her eyes were, and he decided her spouting off wasn’t such a big deal. She calmed down, because she had to eventually, but he really had nothing to say then, either. He stayed quiet. She sat herself down in the chair by the bed. 

Doctors would occasionally come in and shove paperwork into either of their hands. Some of them stayed long enough to ask some condescending questions. Not that Stan was a smartass about it; he just answered simply and to the point. Looking back later, he wouldn’t remember much of what he’d said. It wouldn’t particularly bother him, either.

Maybe he fell asleep, eventually, once the couple hours turned into half the day. Maybe he and Patty had given enough answers for them to make their decision. Either way, he woke up again to dead-eyed people in scrubs lifting him into a gurney for another ambulance ride. He _could_ walk. The gurney wasn’t necessary. Whatever. Path of least resistance.

They got to the inpatient facility by 2 AM. If it was embarrassing to be carted through the cheap-carpeted hallways, that part of Stan’s brain had already shut down. 

They reached the reception area, and it wasn’t remarkable in any way except that Stan knew he’d be spending way too much time there in the next few hours. They took his shoes first; he could’ve kept them, but he didn’t want to have to re-lace them when he got out. Then they took his blood, quickly and without ceremony. Patty brought him some personal items without meeting his eyes, and someone showed him to his room, and without further ado he curled up on his side on the thin mattress and shut his door. There was someone snoring on the other side of the tiny room, but really, Stan was alone now.

* * *

They took his blood again in the morning. They took his blood a lot. He wasn’t totally sure why. Probably had something to do with making sure he hadn’t tried to off himself again, but who needed specifics, right? 

Food wasn’t much, but their pancakes were alright. He supposed the days had schedules, he’d seen the printed copies himself, but the days just seemed to drift by him in no particular pattern. There was one-on-one therapy. There was group therapy. There was free time. There was a lot of free time. Mostly he spent his days doing puzzles in the main room. The other patients didn’t bother him and he left them alone in return. 

Try as he might, he couldn’t distract himself from how fucking dreary it was. Each day felt like weeks, especially when the clocks stopped (and they stopped pretty fucking often). How long had it been since he’d talked to Patty? How long had it been since he’d worn something besides the baggy blue sweater he’d arrived in? 

Why was he here, anyway? He remembered a phone call, a bathtub, a simmering feeling of dread in his gut, and then maybe relief. Not enough to piece together any real explanation.

Well, that wasn’t exactly the truth.

He knew what was happening. Twenty-seven years the memories had been trying to bury themselves. He’d turned desperate trying to outrun them, but there they were, plain as day, open like a wound he couldn’t take his eyes off of. And if he’d made it this far he knew what he had to do now.

* * *

Mike had called Stan’s cell phone the other day and, after a lot of arguing with Patty during visiting hours, Stan had a number he could call back. Patty had grudgingly written the number down on a scrap of paper before pursing her lips and heading out the door. Stan hadn’t seen or heard from her since then, and he could only hope she hadn’t decided to cut her losses.

The ward was laid out so that everything the patients could access branched off from the main “lounge” area. There was a TV in that main room surrounded by chairs and couches, and some tables were placed off to the side. On the other side were the phones: two beige landlines on the wall with those typical spiral cords at the ends.

It took a couple minutes for Stan to work up the courage to dial the number. The whole time the dial tone sounded he kind of wished he could take it back, but, lucky for him, the line picked up after a couple rings.

Stan cleared his throat. His voice still seemed to come out squeaky. “Hi, is there a Mr. Michael Hanlon here?”

“Can I ask who’s calling?”

“Um, it’s me. It’s Stanley.”

After a second, he heard Mike exhale into the receiver. “Stan? Is that really you?”

“Hi.”

“She said you were dead.”

“She did? Patty?”

“...She said you tried to kill yourself. I guess I don’t remember if she said you’d succeeded.” Mike’s voice had turned into more of a mutter now.

“No. I...I’m stuck in the hospital right now. I’m in an inpatient ward.”

“Oh.” A breath. “Jesus.”

Stan had to choke his next words out. “I’m sorry...if I scared you, or anything.” 

Silence.

“I don’t know if you called anyone else,” he continued. “I figured you would’ve. I mean, I wasn’t exactly thinking things through, but...”

“Yeah, I called the rest. We, uh, we actually did it. It’s...dead, I think,” said Mike, breathless like he thought saying it out loud might change that.

“Holy shit. That’s incredible.”

Mike sighed. “Hopefully.”

The phone’s light static roared in Stan’s ear as neither man spoke for a few moments.

“Are you mad at me?” Stan’s voice was a sudden whisper into the receiver.

He heard Mike pause. “I don’t know.”

“...Sorry,” he said. And he _was_ sorry. Maybe. Not because he’d put himself in danger. Mostly because he’d made everyone worry about him, but also because he’d failed, and now he had to deal with the consequences of bailing out on the promise he’d made all those years ago.

“I don’t want you to apologize, Stan. I just want you to be okay.”

“I honestly don’t know if I can do that,” he said, acutely aware of every single flaw he possessed. “I didn’t mean to break our promise, I just―”

“Stan. I understand. I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt, but I don’t… _blame_ you. I’m glad you’re okay. That’s enough for me.”

Mike couldn’t even see him, yet Stan still felt like he’d been suddenly laid bare before him. Mike held so much wisdom deep in his chest; there was nothing he could ever hide from him.

“You stayed there.” He found himself saying it. “You stayed in Derry, when we all left.”

“And that was _my_ choice.”

“I am...a real piece of shit, huh.” It came out with a laugh.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“Stan, I’m not asking you to repent for something. You didn’t do anything wrong. You did what you thought you had to do and I refuse to blame you for that.”

Stan sighed. “You’re too good, y’know that? I don’t deserve this.”

“At least...promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“The Losers are still in town for a few more days. Come join us before they all decide to book it.”

“Oh God, do they all think I’m dead?”

Mike laughed a little. “I’ll fill them in, don’t worry.”

Hearing Mike laugh made Stan a bit less tense, the corner of his mouth turning up in a slight smile. The line was quiet, but it was a nice quiet, the kind that didn’t make Stan’s gut twist. 

“I don’t know if I can face them, after letting everyone down like this,” he said, studying his nails. They didn’t allow nail clippers in the ward, so Stan had been obliged to pick and bite at them until they were dull. “I’ll be there, though. Promise.”

Hanging up the phone gave Stan a new burst of energy. It wasn’t all good energy―some of it left his head spinning with visions of his childhood friends telling him what he already knew, how much of a coward he was, how they wished he’d finished the job before his wife could find him―but it didn’t stop him. Whatever his old friends had to say to him, he needed to hear it. It was probably the only thing that would let him move on from that point.

* * *

Technically, since Stan consented to inpatient treatment, he has the right to leave whenever he wants. In practice, though, his assigned psychiatrist isn’t convinced that he’s bounced back from a suicide attempt so quickly. He’s so clearly set on it, though, and eventually she stops trying to change his mind. She just purses her lips and tells him with a frown where to find the forms he has to fill out. He’s never been great at reading people, but he thinks that means his insurance won’t cover the cost of his stay.

He really did like to think he followed the path of least resistance up to this point. He consented to the inpatient care, after all. He cooperated with the staff and he kept to the schedule and he tried not to cause trouble. The only thing he held back was why he did it. Nobody could get it out of him and eventually they stopped pressing. He gave them a vague answer for them to put down in their books, but what could he possibly say of the truth that they would believe? It wasn’t worth the trouble. There were only six other people in the world who would understand.

He didn’t tell Patty about his release until later. As soon as he got out he took a bus to their house, empty at the time since she was working. Quick as he could he’d packed a bag and gone about booking a flight and driving over to the airport.

Once he’d gone through security and come to his gate he’d left her a voicemail. Short, to the point, promising that he’s willing to talk about it if that’s what it takes but reassuring her that she’s not obligated to fix this mess. He fucked up and that’s not her responsibility. The plane started boarding not long after, and he set his phone on airplane mode not knowing whether she’d gotten the message or not.

The flight took up an uneventful three hours, during which Stan napped and tried to ignore the nervous looks he got from the passengers who noticed the bandages around his wrists. 

And then in no time at all he was cruising through his hometown in some stranger’s car, and when they reached the little hotel he had to majorly shell out for the ride. Not that the money bothered him; it didn’t, so much as it reminded him how far he actually was from the rest of the world. Derry, Maine never quite felt real to him, not looking back and certainly not now, when he stood well within its limits. Only when he saw the rest of the Losers did it feel like a place he could’ve once called his home.

Clearly they’d all been through the reintroductions by now. When Stan walked up to the barn on the Hanlon property, the Losers were standing around, talking loudly and each holding some choice alcohol. That was fair, he thought. Nobody seemed to notice him standing at the open door, but he could see them. They all looked sad. Or maybe sad wasn’t the right word. They all looked tired, like they’d been carrying something something for so long that letting it go didn’t feel like an option. Also fair. Stan knew the feeling. Still, in more ways than one, he was late to the party.

Out of all the losers, Stan recognizes Ben the easiest. 

It’s been years, and all of them have grown into themselves. Ben came out around the end of high school, so it makes sense she’d transition as soon as she got the funds for it. And with the salary of a world-renowned architect she’d have money to spare. So, she looks way different than Stan remembers her. Even more than anyone else in the group. Still, there’s something instantly recognizable in her sandy hair and her flushed cheeks and the quiet way she grins, and he thinks that maybe she’s more obviously herself now than she was before. All of them changed, but she changed into something more authentic and familiar than the rest of them.

He walked into the barn and leaned in to tap her shoulder lightly. “Hey, you look great.”

She turned her head to see him and her eyes went wide. After a second, she smiled. “Thank you. You look...better than I was afraid you might...I guess.”

Stan laughed a little at her sheepish expression. “That’s a fair assessment.”

By then, everyone had turned around as soon as they heard Stan and ~~Ben~~ Emily speak. 

“Stan! Holy Shit!”

Before he could argue he was swept up in a hug by a red-haired woman in a black suit jacket.

“Beverly,” he said, remembering. He returned the hug in equal force. When she pulled back she looked him straight in the eye and he almost had to look away to keep from dissolving into tears.

“We thought you were _dead_. You don’t know how nuts we went when Mike told us you’d called.”

Stan figured the guilt wasn’t gonna let up anytime soon. He looked past her to the rest of his friends. “I’m sorry...that I flaked like that. I should’ve been there.”

All of them had the same pitying expression on their face, except―

“Ya think, you son of a bitch?” Richie just looked fucking mad. After that, he didn’t really understand a word anyone said. Faintly, he heard Richie yelling as Bill gripped his shoulder, trying to calm him down; something about Eddie.

Stan felt like an idiot for not realizing sooner that only six of them were here. The realization sent a wave of ice through his limbs. He took a breath. _It should’ve been him._

This was the first time he’d been hospitalized, but it was hardly the first time he’d tried.

The first time was in eighth grade, a couple months after Summer ‘89. It was winter at the time, which didn’t help. He’d known it was irrational, but something still told him to fill up the sink and dunk his head in until he turned blue. He got about two seconds into it before wrenching his head back out and pretending it hadn’t happened. Another time, in college, he’d chased a shot of vodka with a handful of Tylenol pills, and then promptly threw it all back up into the toilet. Patty had seen the aftermath of that mess; she’d cried, he’d cried, and it felt like he’d never really loved anyone until that moment. Throughout high school he’d entertained a particular fantasy about dressing in his nicest clothes, pouring a champagne flute of bleach, and lying back in the bathtub to enjoy one last drink.

He’d tried many times over the years, but something had always pushed him back from the edge at the last second. Always a scared boy in a bathroom trying to outrun something just out of sight. 

Bev’s hands were firm on his arms, bringing him back to the moment. “Hey. Don’t listen to him, he’s just...still processing things.”

“What happened to Eddie?” Stan asked, dreading the answer.

She hesitated. “He died. In the sewer. Richie’s been a little sore just ‘cause...we had to leave him down there.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

Bev’s keeping it together pretty well, but Stan can tell she’s trying hard not to cry.

“But please don’t think it’s your fault, Stan. There’s really nothing you could’ve done.”

“I don’t think you’re gonna convince him of that so easily,” said Emily, coming over to take Bev’s hand. She whispered in her ear, “You okay?”

Bev nodded and rested her head on Emily’s shoulder, closing her eyes.

Emily smiled at Stan with open eyes, but he took that as his cue to leave, nodding at them before turning to leave.

Bill was still off in the corner with Richie, who looked agitated but not quite as mad. Stan sighed and walked over to Mike.

“You holding up okay?” asked Mike.

“Yeah, fine. Just not really one for parties, I guess.”

Mike dug in his pocket for a second. “If you want to get yourself a drink, I’ve got the key to the house. Believe me, I spared no expense.”

Stan smiled wryly. “I might as well. Thank you.”

He took the key from his hand and headed out of the barn. He’d only just left when Richie rushed out and called to him to wait up. Stan stopped and raised his eyebrows as he caught up, but he didn’t say anything as they walked through the tall grass of the farm. Richie just looked straight ahead and walked silently ahead of him. 

Just the outdoor light was on when they reached the back door. Stan unlocked the door and turned on the ceiling light, finding themselves in the kitchen. 

He’d grabbed a beer and was about to pop the cap when Richie spoke up. “Sorry for freaking out before.”

“S’fine, I get it.” Stan didn’t meet his eyes as opened his bottle. 

A long pause followed, Stan drinking his beer in the bright kitchen light and Richie fidgeting off by the stove.

“I know what it seems like,” he began again. “But I’m not mad just because you’re here and Eddie’s not.” He looked away. “I’m really _not_ mad. I miss him, but I care about you, too. That’s all.”

Stan turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Really?”

“Before the Losers—hell, before Bill and Eddie—you were my best friend. You think I wanna hear you offed yourself?”

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t care? _We_ wouldn’t?”

“I didn’t think at all. Just sort of happened.”

“Oh, come on.”

Stan turned to glare at him. “Hey, don’t tell me you didn’t consider it.” 

“I _considered_ it, but then I remembered you guys,” said Richie, breathing heavily in the following silence. 

Stan shrugged. “Guess I didn’t get that far.”

He heard Richie scoff from behind him. 

“And, y’know, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t finish the job.”

Stan knew he’d fucked up as soon as he’d said it, but he didn’t say anything else, or turn to see what Richie’s response to that had been. He took a rather long swig of beer and tried to ignore him. He’d never felt more like a child than he did then: vulnerable and selfish.

Finally, Richie responded. 

“You know that’s not what I mean.” He was crying. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” He sighed. “And you’d be right to think I’m a coward.”

“No. You’re not. I’d rather you were alive ‘cause you’d missed out than dead because you hadn’t.”

“I’m really, _really_ sorry about Eddie.”

“Me too, I guess,” he said, still crying.

* * *

Derry, Maine wasn’t a person and Mike supposed he couldn’t technically blame anything on it. That said, for something inanimate, it sure put him through hell. In his mind, Derry as a concept was inseparable from his parents’ deaths, the bolt gun, the fucking clown, and every other little thing that made sleeping a hobby and not a job. Still, the worst thing Derry ever did to Mike, the thing that encapsulated everything else, was forcing him to grow up. 

He saw it in their faces, the rest of them. They were tired. Maybe not as tired as he was, but it wasn’t exactly a contest. And seeing it on them only made it feel worse on him. And what was he, if not something they could believe in? Something they could place their bets on?

Richie eventually returned to the barn with a bottle of whiskey, teary-eyed but at least not angry like before. Stan wasn’t with him. So Mike went back. He found Stan outside, sitting by the backdoor, just looking up at the stars like a newborn child. He didn’t look Mike’s way as he approached, but he remarked, “You can’t see this in the Georgia suburbs like you can out here.”

Mike smiled, a little. “Maybe Derry is good for something.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

He sat down next to Stan, leaning against the white-painted wood of the farm house. He’d lived here his whole life, but it had been decades since he’d actually taken the time to look at the night sky. Maybe the last time had been with Stan.

“You doing alright?”

“Fine. You don’t have to ask me that.”

“I kinda feel like I do.”

“You’re not responsible for me, Mike.”

“If I hadn’t called—”

“If I’d just sucked it up like everyone else—”

“You did what you thought was—”

“I left you here, Mike!” Stan said, all but shouting. “I left you here, and I was gonna bail on you again.”

“I made my choice!”

“Well, I made mine. And I’m a piece of shit.”

“I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at myself.” 

Mike looked at Stan. His face was turned away, but Mike could see the pain in his eyes. He was hunched over himself with his arms crossed, shaking the slightest bit. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not.”

“...Have you ever left Maine in the last twenty-seven years?”

“I’ve left Derry a couple times. Not Maine, though.”

“It feels rotten that I forgot you even existed. After all you’ve done for us.” _After all we meant to each other._ He didn’t say it but Mike heard it.

“I told you, it was my choice. I don’t hold that against any of you.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t make it better!” 

Mike exhaled. “I’m not gonna blame you for being scared, Stan.”

“No, you’re just gonna blame yourself.”

He didn’t have an answer to that. It was true enough. 

“You could leave, you know,” said Stan after a short pause.

“...but Derry’s my home.”

“You can leave home.”

“Is it that easy?”

“Sometimes.” Stan shrugged. “You don’t have to do it alone. You shouldn’t have to be alone anymore. I know you don’t want me to feel bad about this whole mess, but don’t tell me it hasn’t been hard on you.”

He was right. It’d been years since Mike had really had...someone. His grandfather had died a while back, and he hadn’t quite had the heart to keep the farm going. So he’d lived on the land, but the land had grown without him into something wild and no longer his. He knew people in town, people at the library, but they didn’t really know him. Not like he knew he wanted to be known. As more than just another sorry person. Lonely was something he’d been for a while; alone was a cruel inevitability.

“We’re not kids in love anymore. You have a wife, Stan. You need to go back to her.”

Finally, Stan looked him in the eyes. “But I can’t leave you here again.”

Mike closed his eyes. He felt hollow, like if you peeled back his skin there’d be nothing there. “You would really just...invite me back into your life? When you have nothing left to tie you to this place?”

“I’m trying to tell you, you’re about the _only_ thing left.” Stan took his hand in the bright spotlight of the moon. “I’m sorry I tried to kill myself. I’m sorry that I’m _not_ sorry I tried. I can’t promise something perfect, but you told me on the phone that I hurt you and I know I never want to do that again. Please don’t stay here.”

After decades, Mike’s resolve was wearing thin. 

“I could help you sell the farm. I could help you get everything sorted out, but I’m not leaving this place unless you’re coming with me.”

“You wouldn’t really live here again…”

“Try me.”

Mike couldn’t help but smile at his determination, and Stan looked relieved. “Maybe it might be nice. To be somewhere else.”

“Somewhere you aren’t gonna be surrounded by ghosts.”

“I’ve been...depressed, for years now, over all this shit. I guess that’s what happens when you stick around and catalog it.”

“Even now, it feels like it’s getting better. There’s something lighter, in the air. You did what you could. It’s time we let this place sort itself out.”

Mike felt something warm as Stan squeezed his hand. They weren’t smiling, but they weren’t gloomy anymore, either. Something felt a little sharper, a little clearer. Like there was hope for...something. For all of them.

**Author's Note:**

> st bede the venerable, patron saint of historians, pls let my good son mike leave Hell Town, USA
> 
> was that one part just an excuse 2 wax poetic abt trans girl ben? maybe so. anyway thanks 4 tuning in, im on tumblr @ miraclerats


End file.
